


Witness Protection

by LuthienLuinwe



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, F/M, Jason Freaks Out Because a Cow Looks At Him, Jason Todd is in Witness Protection, M/M, Teen Pregnancy, Witness Protection Program, country living, rural au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-06 21:39:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15204029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuthienLuinwe/pseuds/LuthienLuinwe
Summary: After witnessing a murder in an alleyway in Gotham City, Jason is forced into the Witness Protection. He expected to be sent to another city, hell, even a suburb. What he did not expect was to be sent to live with farmer Bruce Wayne and his family. And he certainly did not expect to fall in love with that farmer's oldest son.





	1. Hillbilly Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I live in a heavily rural area, so this is largely based on some of what I experience every day. Thank you to my Discord buddies who have encouraged me to write this AU that started half-jokingly, and thank you to Airdanteine for beta'ing for me.

Wrong place. Wrong time. Story of his God-damned life. He should have ran the second he saw the man cock the gun, but his body wouldn’t listen, and he had stood there frozen, feet firmly planted on the asphalt. The man in the suit had made eye-contact with him when he pulled the trigger, killing a man on his knees.

He should have run. Then he would have been able to stay home, if he could call it that. Third foster home in a year. He’d been given a day to gather his things, to say goodbye. Gotham wasn’t safe for him, not when he was damn near certain a hit had been placed on his head. He’d seen too much. He could’ve talked.

Really it was a miracle they hadn’t killed him yet.

“What’s your name?” his witness protection case worker had asked when he’d gotten into the car.

“Jason Todd,” he answered, voice flat, monotone. At least he got to keep his first name. And really, Todd had a nicer ring to it than Haywood anyway. He didn’t know where they were going. It was better not to ask too many questions.

He watched as the city transitioned to the suburbs. Skyscrapers, dirty streets, and the faint smell of rotten sewage replaced with two-story houses and perfectly maintained lawns. Still too close to Gotham, though. No way he was being placed there.

It was an eight-hour drive, and Jason had never been more bored in his entire life. Flying was too risky, the officer had said. Too easy to track. He didn’t need to be tracked. He needed to disappear, at least until the end of the trial. Maybe even for the rest of his life. People like Roman Sionis had connections everywhere. One wrong move, and he’d be a dead man before he knew what hit him.

He frowned when the officer took the next exit. Where the hell were they? Jason had never seen so much… nothing in his life. And it was still another half an hour before they stopped. God, he was being placed in the middle of fucking nowhere. Everything was farmland and pasture, and he was a city kid for Christ’s sake. He didn’t belong there.

The officer pulled up to a farmhouse, a nice one, Jason figured. Two stories with a plantation porch even. A dark-haired man stood waiting for them, dressed in red plaid flannel and bootcut jeans. Wasn’t that just something the movies had made up? Surely to God no one actually dressed like that.

“Thank you again, Mr. Wayne,” the officer said, and Jason glanced around the porch. Swing under the awning. More rocking chairs than anyone had any right to own. And all around them… Nothing. Fields. Corn fields, for crying out loud.

The man nodded and looked Jason over. “You ever worked a farm, boy?” he asked, and Jason shook his head. Did he look like he’d ever worked on a damned farm? He was beginning to regret what he packed. Skinny jeans, cargo pants, and t-shirts probably wouldn’t do too well for him here. “We’ll see to it that gets fixed. Now get inside. Room’s upstairs and second door on the left.”

Jason muttered a thanks and stepped inside. It was a nice house, at least, with polished hardwood floors and a tasteful eye for decor. He frowned when he saw a boy maybe a year younger than him sitting on the couch, textbook open in his lap. No one had warned him he wouldn’t be alone. The boy glanced over at him and sat up, setting his book to the side. “Who’re you?”

“Uh, Jason,” he answered, unsure of how to respond.

“What’re you doin’ here?”

“Timmy, don’t pester him,” another voice said, but Jason couldn’t see him from behind the wall. God, how many people were there? Were they all like him? He hoped not. No one deserved to see the things he’d seen.  _ You didn’t see anything,  _ he tried to remind himself.  _ You’re just a normal foster kid. Nothing happened. _

He headed up the stairs and to the left, just like Mr. Wayne had said. He opened the cream-colored door and stepped inside. It wasn’t anything to write home about. Twin sized bed covered with the ugliest quilt Jason had seen in his life. Dresser that looked older than he was. Ceiling fan that dropped so low he was worried he’d hit his head on it if he wasn’t careful.

He threw his bag down and sat next to it, glancing out the window across from him. For fuck’s sake, there was an actual bright red barn. Maybe he had died after all. He’d died and gone to hillbilly hell. It was the only explanation that made sense.

The quiet scared him. He wanted street noises, cars passing, people talking and yelling, horns blaring… It was unsettling. He could hear the fan humming above him. “You all settled in, Jay-boy?” he jumped, startled by the sudden sound. Did everyone in that damned house walk like a ghost?

“It’s just Jason,” he muttered and glanced over at Mr. Wayne, but the man didn’t seem to hear him.

“Now we need to go over the rules of stayin’ here,” Jason watched the man cross his arms. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Rules rarely changed from one foster family to another. “You go to school and you put an effort in. After school, you help out ‘round here. On Saturdays you’d best be up by five, an’ on Sundays, you’ll be goin’ to church with us.”

Church? Seriously? He hadn’t stepped foot in a church since his mom’s funeral seven years prior. “Understood,” he answered, knowing better than to argue. Mr. Wayne was doing him a favor. He tried to tell himself he was grateful.

His wit-sec officer seriously couldn’t have found anywhere else to put him?

“You can ride to school with Timmy, Cassie, and Richard John,” the man continued. How many people lived in the damned house? “Damian, my boy, still goes to the elementary so he rides separate. Richard John’s only a year older’n you. He can get you catched up on your schoolin’.” 

Like he needed to be caught up on anything. Gotham may have been a hell-hole, but at least the public education had been halfway decent. 

“Don’ be botherin’ Mr. Wilson down the street.” For Christ’s sake, how many rules were there? And how the hell was he supposed to remember all these names? “He ain’t been the same since his boy Grant drowned an’ his wife up and left him. Never did like that woman.”

“Got it,” Jason nodded and hoped to whatever higher power existed that the man would just stop talking. 

“An’ you’ll be usin’ your manners,” Mr. Wayne continued. “You’re a city boy. You weren’t raised under no damn rock. You say ‘yessir’ and ‘no sir,’ you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Jason answered. God, he was one of  _ those.  _

“Now get yourself unpacked,” he finished. “Supper’ll be on the table in an hour.”

“Thanks,” Jason sighed and watched Mr. Wayne leave, keeping the door wide open behind him. He could see another room across the hall from his. Another twin-sized bed. A quilt that was somewhat less hideous than his own. Carnival posters? God, he’d ended up in fucking Night Vale.

He unzipped his duffel bag and pulled one of the dresser drawers open, cringing when it made an awful creaking, scraping noise. Who still used real wooden furniture? He pulled his t-shirts out and re-folded them before placing them inside. God, his officer should have warned him about what to pack. He doubted band shirts and tight-fitting tees would go over too well. But the thought of wearing nothing but flannel and denim made him more than a little bit sick to his stomach.

“Don’ mind Brucie,” the voice from earlier spoke, and Jason swore under his breath. Had these people never heard of privacy? Jason turned around, and kept down a noise of surprise when he saw the boy. He had to have been around Jason’s age, and damned if he wasn’t the prettiest person Jason had ever laid eyes on. Dark hair that hung in his face just right, bright blue eyes. It almost made up for those awful overalls and work boots. “You just gotta give him time. He’ll come around.”

“Thanks,” Jason sighed and shut the drawer before turning back. “I’m assuming you’re Richard John?”

“Dick,” the older teen corrected, and Jason fought the urge to laugh. He had to be fucking with him. No sane man under sixty would actually go by Dick. There was no way. “But everyone here calls me Richard John. You get used to it after a bit.”

“So Bruce is your dad?” Jason guessed and sat cross-legged on his bed.

“Only legally,” Dick answered and leaned against the doorframe. “My parents did acrobatics. Died in a stage collapse at the festival here. He took me in when I was nine. Been here since. He really ain’t bad once you get to know him. What’s your name?”

“Jason,” he answered and leaned back on his elbows. 

“Pleasure,” Dick nodded, and Jason watched as he turned and left.

He sighed and plopped down on his back, staring up at that stupid fan. Even with it, the room was still burning up. Had Mr. Wayne, or Brucie as Dick had called him, not heard of air conditioning? God, he hoped they had heat for when winter struck.

Still, bad as the situation was, pretty-boy Dick was bound to make everything better.

At least it gave him something pretty to look at.


	2. You Must Be Jason

It was five-thirty in the God-damned morning when the alarm on his wit-sec issued phone went off. God, back in Gotham he at least got to sleep in until six before he had to start getting ready for school. He didn’t want to think about being the new kid again, not when he had no doubt in his mind everyone in this new school would have known each other since kindergarten. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise him if most were related to each other some way or another.

He rolled out of bed and pulled his phone from its charger before heading down the hall. Where had the bathroom been again. “Timmy I swear to God…” he heard a male voice groan, followed by banging on a door. Well, that must have been it. “I need in there. My hair ain’t gonna do itself.” 

Jason stood, clutching his towel, watching him for a solid minute, wondering how long it would take Richard John to realize he was standing there. Slowly, he turned, and Jason forced a smile. “Morning,” Jason greeted.

“Morning,” he responded before turning back and banging on the door again.

Dear God. There couldn’t have only been one bathroom for the four of them.

Dear God.

There was only one bathroom for the four of them.

A pickup truck. An actual, honest to God pickup truck. God, it had to have been older than Jason was. And... There were four of them, if he was counting right. Dick (Richard John in public, as he had been reminded), Timmy (the little brat who'd interrogated him not five minutes after he'd moved in), and who he assumed must have been Cassie. A quiet girl, it seemed. Didn't say much.

"There are only two seats," Jason said and frowned when Richard John laughed. "What?"

"There's two in the back," Timmy said. "You and Richard John can take 'em. I ain't doin' it."

Jason frowned and glanced into the truck. Cassie had opened the passenger door and pushed the front seat down. Surely enough... Two tiny seats, facing each other. There was no way in hell they were both going to fit back there.

He watched Richard John shrug and get into the back of the car, taking the seat behind the driver's seat. Jason sighed, hoped to whatever God was out there that he would fit, and got in across from him. He tried to focus on the roads, anything to try and calm his mind. Who the hell had designed them? They were too windy, and there was no way that could have been safe at night. And he was pretty sure he had yet to see a single street light.

  
They could have at least given him a week to adjust to the new house before starting at the new school. One major change at a time was enough. "You'll go to the office an' get yer schedule," Richard John said, and Jason rolled his eyes. He knew how the new school thing worked. He'd done it enough times.

He listened to his three foster-siblings bitch about school the entire way there. Funny how certain things never changed. He got out of the truck when they arrived at the school. God, that couldn't have been the entire thing... It was one story... Maybe had a basement, but he couldn't tell. And were those... elementary children getting out of that school bus? Didn't Bruce say Damian went to the elementary school and that's why he had to drive separate?

"He goes to private school," Timmy said. “We don’ talk about it much.”

Jason nodded. Of course the youngest brat went to private school. He hadn’t even stopped by to introduce himself the night before. Jason grabbed his bag and headed to the office, trying to ignore the people staring at him. Because of course they were staring at him. Everyone loved a new kid, even in the city where they were a dime a dozen. Here, he’d be the talk of the town, maybe even for the rest of his life in the school.

“An’ how’re you, sweetie?” a kindly woman with long gray hair greeted him. God, it was the smallest school office Jason had ever seen. “I need your name and grade level so I can get you yer schedule.”

“Fine,” Jason muttered, resisting the urge to snap that no one called him ‘sweetie.’ What kind of parallel universe had he been forced into. “Jason Todd. T-O-D-D. Eleventh grade.” He watched the lady nod and listened to the clack-clack-clack of her nails on her keyboard. She wheeled over to the printer, licked her finger, and peeled the paper away.

Did he really have to touch that?

He glanced over his information. Locker 211 (“It’s with the freshman, but it’s the best I could do for ya…). At least his schedule seemed relatively normal until… Agriculture. Of fucking course he was going to have to take a farming class. He thanked the woman, pocketed the paper, and headed off to his locker.

Nothing screamed ‘new kid’ more than carrying around a slip of paper with all his information on it.

He tried to tell himself it was all in his head. People weren’t really staring at him…

He was more than a little relieved when he saw Timmy, leaned against a locker talking to a pretty blonde girl who would have been tiny had it not been for…

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“Hey Jay,” Timmy waved, and Jason cursed under his breath before forcing a smile and joining them. “This here’s my girl, Steph.”

“Nice to meet you,” the girl, Steph Jason figured, nodded.

“You too,” Jason responded and glanced between her and Timmy. They had to know… Right? Bumps like that didn’t just  _ happen _ . Did Bruce know? Bruce would probably flip when and if he found out.

And was that a…

“We’re gettin’ married just as soon as we’re old enough,” Timmy explained, and Jason wanted to scream. They couldn’t have been any older than fifteen. “The right thing tah do an’ all.” God, did no one talk to these kids about sex? And did no one realize that you didn’t  _ have  _ to marry someone you had a kid with? He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he so much as thought about mentioning other options. 

Jason jumped when he heard the bell, an honest to God school bell instead of the medium-pitched beep he’d grown accustomed to back in Gotham. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed off to class.

He walked into his first period class, pre-calculus, and glanced around. No whiteboard. No Smartboard. No projector. Just a plain blackboard mounted to the wall with yesterday’s lessons scribbled all over it. He glanced at the corner. Bell ringers were there, as he’d expected, but not just for pre-calculus. How many math classes did that teacher teach?

It had to have been the smallest classroom he’d ever been in, not to mention the smallest class size. God, there were only fifteen of them by his count. He took a seat near the front, not bothering with the back. The teacher would just have him move anyway. They always did.

“You must be Jason,” the teacher greeted with a smile, and Jason nodded and took the textbook she gave him. It had to have been nearly as old as he was. The spine was duct-taped together and the cover was damn near falling apart.

It was going to be a  _ long  _ semester.


End file.
